


one mirror (holding us dearer now)

by DeductionIsKey



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker is Mature, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 22:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19118968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeductionIsKey/pseuds/DeductionIsKey
Summary: “Anyway, got to go! Night!”“Night, kid.” Quiet, soft. Fond.The call ends, and Tony looks around at the destruction around him. His stomach is like lead and his throat burns. Suddenly, the sight of that amber liquid next to him disgusts him, and he pushes it away with a scoff. “Fri?” He says, stumbling away from the soiled chair he’d collapsed on. “Get rid of all alcohol in the house, by tomorrow, please. Before three.”“Yes, Boss,” FRIDAY says. “Anything else?”“Yeah.” He pauses. “Sign me up for that A.A. group on 121st street, okay?”“Already scheduled, Boss.”-Or: Peter learns a lesson of unbecoming.





	one mirror (holding us dearer now)

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to have this as a one-shot, but I decided to split into two parts to make it more digestible. I honestly love this so far and hopefully, the second part goes up in a couple of days! Enjoy!

Peter never really felt proud of himself.

He’d always been remarkable by societal standards, passing every test and with flying colours that awed and confused his teachers. He’d see that glint in their eyes, the special attention they showed him. Humans, no matter how old, no matter how brittle their bones or tired their hearts, gravitate toward connections, _power._ They knew that whatever he chose to do, he’d be great at it. They knew that, with hard work and an extra smile, they could share in that greatness, just ever so slightly, and leaks everything out of him that they could. It was greedy in a way he grew used to, even stop noticing after a while. To others, even those he called friend, he was just a tool. A tool they’d abandon the moment it turned dull and useless. Disposable.

He learned these things slowly, and then, all at once. Four-year-old him got a glimpse of it when the principal had given his aunt his contact information in a parent-teacher meeting only weeks after his parent’s deaths. “Call me,” he had said softly, but it made Peter’s spine chill. “If you need… anything.” He looked toward Peter, his eyes almost hungry, and Peter shrunk into his aunt’s side. Uncle Ben frowned. “Anything at all.”

He’d transferred the next year to a different school, and that card had been crumpled and thrown into the nearest trash bin. He never forgot those eyes though, the bored sort of cruelness that had glared into his soul. _I see you,_ they had seemed to whisper, and all Peter wanted was to hide.

The point is, people used him. They tore him up and spit him out again, left him as something less than what he was. It wasn’t just people though, it was events too, unimaginable fates and terrible futures that changed everything he ever was or had been.

When Ben died, they weren’t able to have a wake. “We can’t afford it, Pete,” May had said, and he’d hugged her gently. Inside though, he’d been relieved. He’d already seen what Ben looked like… after. No use in seeing it again. Ever again.

The tightness around his shoulders always seemed to follow him around now, controlling how he looked, what he said. Grief had reverberated and bled through him, grafted him into something he thought he’d never become: a villain. When he had shot web after web at all the criminals he could, shouted and screamed at them again and again, his mind hadn’t been clear. It hadn’t been anything. It just was. He… just was.

And for a while, that’s how he stayed.

Lost in pain and empty promises, poetic nothings, Peter had flitted from tower to tower of New York, trying to find himself in the settled dust. The first day he had swung throughout the city, _flew_ , a shocked, amazed laugh had escaped him, the air ripping it from him almost as soon as it had appeared.  He’d still heard it though, and for a while, he sat and just breathed. Wondered how long it had been since he had laughed.

Grief, loss, sadness. These things had to be fought, day by day, and they aged Peter in a way time never could. The scars he had, little specks of when his healing had been delayed, or not quite enough, they spoke of him. About how he’d struggled, fought tooth and nail, and won.

When Peter looked in the mirror, he knows what he sees. Sometimes, he sees someone lost, when a hit is too hard or the memories have cut a little too deep. Sometimes, he just sees all his failures, the blood and the screams he couldn’t stop. Sometimes, on the bad days, on the dark days, he just shuts his eyes and sees nothing at all. But he gets back up, shakes it off, calms his pulse down to its already-wild pace, and gets through the motions. He’s Spider-Man, and people need him.

He knows Spider-Man is more then he is, that really, the things he does don’t make that much of a difference. There are people that can take his place, men and women braver and smarter than ten of him. There’s Daredevil, who ruins men that could _crush_ Peter, stronger than he ever could be. Who takes a hit and gets back up again and again. Braver, stronger, _more._

A friend. Someone to depend on.

( _“How do you do it?” He’d asked once when the city was quiet and calm. Daredevil sat next to him, his mask shining a harsh light on the dimly lit billboards surrounding them. The red reflected off his uniform in the form of an intense aura of flawless intimidation, and even in such a casual setting, Peter is blown away by how… perfect he is as a vigilante. Everything Peter could be. “How’d you deal with it all?” He struggles to expound. “I mean, the deaths and aches and blood-” He stops._

_Daredevil takes a moment to answer. “I’m not the poster child for mental health, Peter,” He says, and his voice is dryly sarcastic. Still, it sounds with a firmness that Peter appreciates, one that tells him that, no matter what, he takes Peter and his questions seriously._

_He’s so sick of not being taken seriously._

_“It’s about having something to come home too.” Daredevil continues. “Being able to leave behind those nightmares and the hits that you don’t get up from.” He tilts his head. “Having a person that brightens those days that get dark and making sure that you don’t.”_

_“Don’t?” Peter asks. He thinks he heard correctly, as the things Daredevil says are always heartfelt and intellectually philosophical in a way Peter could never be - but he needs to hear it. To know it’s not just him who worries about becoming something… broken._

_“This job takes a toll.” It’s deadly serious, yet comforting. How does he do that? “It tears you up and spits something back out, and having another person there - who knows you, truly, deeply - is important. Because if one day, you don’t get up, or if one day, something darker gets up,” A pause. “They know it’s their job to bench you.”_

_“Who’s that for you?” He dares to ask. A personal question. (Are they ready for that?)_

_“My family, Pete.” Fondness. It seems unfit for this conversation, but Peter recognizes it all the same. Daredevil gets up and cocks his head toward an alley. Peter can tell he’s leaving, and he gets up too, but then -_

_“Daredevil?” It’s hesitant. His voice is quiet. “If I - you know, will you bench me?”_

_The air between them suddenly seems stale as Daredevil thinks over his next answer. In the background, a cat yowls in the alley below. It seems more like an hour rather then the seconds it is before his response._

_“Peter,” Daredevil says, and finally he truly looks deep into Peter’s eyes. Even with the masks, they stand bare in front of each other. “If that ever happens, you can depend on me to stop you.”_

_Peter nods, and together, they move forward to stop the next criminal in that endless fight.)_

There’s Mister Stark, who does so much good that Peter loses track of all that he’s accomplished. He’s a monolith of a man, one who seems to take up the entire room he’s in. His eyes always illuminated by some sort of polarized glass, he makes Peter seem small and timid in a way his elementary self would have been proud of. He feels… inexperienced next to Mister Stark. Young, untested. Unbroken.

He thinks that why Mister Stark likes him.

_(When parties wind down, it doesn’t happen as a decisive explosion, with people all suddenly deciding to go home and end the reigning chaos of the night. It was sluggish, one person, then two, and suddenly, they were all gone. With only a disco ball glittering sadly on the ceiling, the DJ paid and long gone._

_Tony always hated that part. The finality to it, the abrupt loneliness that fought to overwhelm him when he looked around and realized how truly alone he was. It made him want to call everyone back and yell ‘cut!’ like they were in a drama and it was time for a breakdown of the protagonist. Like he was a show, and the audience had all gone home. And now, what was he?_

_“Life’s a stage,” He muttered, and reached again for the bottle._

_The ringing in his pocket stops him, and he muttered a curse. “Can’t get a moment of peace,” He said and pulled out the holographic display. The sudden bright light hurt his eyes, and he winced at the screen. “What’s it say, Fri?” His speech is slightly slurred._

_“Incoming call from Peter Parker, sir.” Her voice is lowered for his benefit, but her answer causes Tony to sit up straighter._

_“Accept,” He says, and then, “Hey, Pete. What’s up?” Casual. The slur is barely detectable._

_“Sorry, Mr Stark!” It’s a squeak, obviously distracted, and Tony winces at the high-pitched noise. “I know it’s late - wow, 1 am, Karen? I need to slee-”_

_“Cutting it close, kid,” Tony said irritatedly and rubbed his forehead. “I also need to… sleep.” He eyes the bottle next to him._

_“Oh, yeah, sorry!” Too cheery for 1 am. It makes Tony’s stomach churn. Maybe it was doing that before. “Anyway, I know this is late notice, but I didn’t realize how late it was and I just got off patrol-”_

_“Peter,” He really should be feeling more anger by now._

_“Anyway,” He hurries. “Turns out that Ned doesn’t have time tomorrow to hang out, so I was wondering if I could come over and we could upgrade my suit like you suggested?” Uncertainty creeps into his tone. “It’s fine if you’re busy, you know, whatev-”_

_“Nah, sounds great, kid,” Tony said. “After school? Three to seven, if May’s chill about it we can even get take-out if you’re down.”_

_"Okay!” Peter says, and then he laughs. “You’re so old, Mister Stark.”_

_“Hey!” Tony says defensively, his own loud voice making his incoming headache throb even more. “Who’s paying for your meals tomorrow?”_

_Peter laughs again, shuffling being heard in the background. “You, Mister Stark.” It’s innocent. Happy.  “Anyway, got to go! Night!”_

_“Night, kid.” Quiet, soft. Fond._

_The call ends, and Tony looks around at the destruction around him. His stomach is like lead and his throat burns. Suddenly, the sight of that amber liquid next to him disgusts him, and he pushes it away with a scoff. “Fri?” He says, stumbling away from the soiled chair he’d collapsed on. “Get rid of all alcohol in the house, by tomorrow, please. Before three.”_

_“Yes, Boss,” FRIDAY says. “Anything else?”_

_“Yeah.” He pauses. “Sign me up for that A.A. group on 121st street, okay?”_

_“Already scheduled, Boss.”)_

When Peter is creating, he feels alive. He feels alive when he’s swinging through Queens, but that sort of exhilaration is short-lived, a kind of adrenaline rush. This is more meant, pure. When he was first experimenting with the suit, everything that he sewed together, no matter how mismatched, gave him a high, unlike any drug. The pride of, _I did that._ The pure joy of being the creator of something you could be proud of in the first place overwhelms him, and for a while, he was content with that.

He tried to show his creations to May, who tried, she really, really did, but her eyes were always blank when he got into the basic technical terms. “You lost me at VRAM, honey.” She says, even though he was talking about the microprocessors now.

“That was minutes ago!” He protested, and May laughs, a pitying sound.

“Sorry, Pete,” She says, and pats his arm. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I guess.”

“You’re 45. That’s not even a valid excuse yet.” He says, and she laughs again.

The gist of Peter’s life was this: he had no one to really relate to. No one who understood.

He didn’t bemoan his situation like he saw others doing though, just accepted it. To some extent, he knew that that’s how it always would be. Ned understood computer science well enough, they’d taught each other what they both knew, and grew on that. May knew a little about his struggles with just _being,_ and the mint ice cream in the freezer was her cure for that. He found comfort in the things he made, and the lives he saved, and let that be enough.

_(“Mr Parker,” A voice said, barely in his field of vision. “Since you seem to be in such a state of utter attention,” He looked up almost blearily, to the frown of his teacher. “Name the etymology of the biological term ‘humoral immunity’.”_

_Whispers. Soft laughs. Children are cruel. Even though they didn’t know what etymology meant, or exactly what humoral immunity was anyway, they knew humiliation was coming. The air was lit with sweet cruel attention, and his teacher crossed her arms and just... waited._

_“Well, I know the first term comes from the Latin word, humor, whose genitive form - possessive for us - is humoralis, obviously,” The teacher blinked, and suddenly, there was silence. “In a specific sense, it relates to the hypothetical four humors that the Medieval Europeans thought we contained, and they actually did studies based on them?” Now, Peter was gushing. “Like, the four temperaments? They come from the supposed imbalances of the humors! Like, you think they would check?” He smiled, bright and lost in a whole different world. “But now though, we just use the adjective to signify something to do with bodily fluid.” His face is flushed, and he seems to be shaking slightly. It’s only then that he notices the uncharacteristic silence, and he flushed even more deeply. “And I - don’t know where immunity comes from. Sorry.”_

_“Mr Parker…” His fourth-grade teacher said, her tone astonished. “Where on earth did you read that?”_

_“I - uh,” He paused. “I got a Latin textbook for my birthday, and uh, it has annotations.”_

_“Oh. Well, wonderful job, Mr Parker. Just pay more attention next time.” It’s quiet, and then she turns back to the board. “So, amino acids function as-”_

_“Ego gratiam doctoris mei ago.” Peter whispers quietly to himself. His small smile doesn’t dim for the rest of the class.)_

What some people don’t realize when they meet him, is how multi-faceted he is. Of course, it’s almost a side-effect of reading so much, that he would have knowledge in an almost absurd number of things. Terms, politics, architecture. Literature, mathematics, art. He could talk someone’s ear off about so many subjects it made most of his teacher’s heads spin, and slowly, they grew used to it. Peter Parker missed a week of school and is already caught up in three hours? It’s a Parker thing. Peter Parker handed in buckets of extra-credit essays that you didn’t even ask for? It’s a Parker thing. Soon, nothing Peter did surprised them, because everything already did.

Just because he was smart though, - a genius, his teachers say - doesn’t mean he can’t do stupid things. Doesn’t mean that all his habits are adult and grown-up. He can be a kid. He deserves to be a kid. But he also deserves not to be underestimated.

_(“Hey kid,” Mister Stark says one day after school. Aunt May had been taking extra shifts so they could save up more money, and Peter found drifting around an empty house lonesome without Ned. Mister Stark offered, he accepted._

_“Hey, Mister Stark,” Peter replies, and then swiped a piece of toast from Tony’s plate, biting down on it definitively in front of Tony’s now astonished eyes. He hummed. “This is good.”_

_“I know,” Tony answered, his voice flat. “It was mine.”_

_Peter grinned, dancing out of Mister Stark’s near reach. “No, that’s not why. I think it’s because I touched it.” His grin grows bigger._

_Tony splutters in mock-outrage. “Peter Parker, you are a plague to society.” He gets up, leaving his now-empty plate on the marble island. “And I have decided on_

_your punishment.”_

_“My punishment?” Curious despite himself, Peter swallowed his last bite of stolen bread and followed Tony down the hallway. “What would that be?”_

_“I’ve got a gala scheduled down at some medical hospital I fund.” He takes Peter’s head under his arm. His tone is fond. “And you’re coming with me!”_

_“I’m what?”_

_“Misery loves company, Pete. And I seem to be in the remarkable occasion of having no food left to comfort me.” His voice turns more delighted as Peter groans. “Black-tie, formal, the whole shebang. You asked for it, kid.”_

_“Mr Stark, I don’t have any of that stuff.”_

_“Well, we’ve got about two hours to fix that.”_

_-_

_The gala lights are gleaming. The party’s general air is one of sophisasted ostentations, from the gentle music playing softly over the speakers to the glittered gowns and suits of the men and women around them. Peter can’t help but feel out of place, and he fidgets with his collar. “Mister Stark, I still don’t know why I’m here-”_

_“Champagne, Mister Stark?” A waitress asks, and Mister Stark waves her away._

_“I’m on a cleanse.” He looks toward Peter. “New face of the company, kid. You’re my personal intern, resident child-genius, little-me but smaller-”_ _  
_

_“I’m as tall as you!” It comes out louder then Peter thought it would, and his face turns red at the people who look towards him and Tony curiously._ _  
_

_“And I’m talking.” Tony guides him through the crowd with the confident attitude of someone who’s done this time and time again, and Peter has no choice but to follow him. “Just smile and wave, kid. Like those animated penguin things.”_

_“What?” He’s so confused._

_“Never-mind. Just act cool, Pete, it’ll be fin- Oh, Doctor Miller! Lovely to see you!” The interruption is in the form of an olive-skinned man, whose eyes seem tired as they whirl around to the source of the noise. They still brighten when they land on Tony though, and then glance curiously back at the almost-hovering Peter._

_“Hello, Tony! What a coincidence meeting you here!” His voice is gravelly in the way that usually comes with age, and almost utterly insincere. “And who’s this?” Peter can’t help but want to take a step back when his gaze turns toward him._

_“This is Peter, my personal intern. Peter, Doctor Miller; Doctor Miller, Peter.” Tony stepped back and pushed Peter slightly toward Doctor Miller. He stumbled toward the man, his hand outstretched._

_“Hey, I’m Peter,” He says, and the man sniffed slightly, peering down at him with all the advantage that an inch could give him. “It’s nice to meet you.”_

_“Likewise, Peter,” Doctor Miller says, taking Peter’s hand in his. Peter hopes it isn’t as sweaty as it feels. “What work do you do with Mister Stark?” It’s polite, nothing more._

_Mister Stark laughs, but it’s nothing like the ones Peter’s heard before - it’s tinlike, synthetic. Fake. “You know that’s classified, John.” and Miller responds with a chuckle just as fake._

_“Of course, of course. A man can’t help but dream though, can he?” And for a second, the conversation stalls. Silence for a second: one, two, and then:_

_“Well, I do spy what might be on your agenda, Tony,” and Miller points toward the gathered group of nurses and female doctors who are slowly dispersing throughout the crowd. Their gowns and assorted dresses glitter underneath the light. “I do so wish I could get me one of those…” Peter shivers unconsciously at his tone._

_Tony smiles again, but this time it’s almost biting like he just managed to reign in his true thoughts. “Those days are behind me now, Doctor Miller,” and the honorific is plastic and meaningless under Tony’s tone of veiled disdain. “I’m engaged, you know.”_

_“Ah! I forgot,” and the hard slap on Tony’s back speaks quite the opposite. Miller laughs again, but it doesn’t help the sudden tension in the room. He looks toward Peter again, and he straightens slightly. “What about you, young man?” It’s sly._

_“For you know what they all say,” and a pseudo-scholar stands in the form of that man. “Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women.” The ‘intelligent’ part of the sentence is mocking and full of stolen innuendo and it slides off his tongue as a veiled justification. Peter finds his urge to recoil even stronger._

_“Of course, you wouldn’t recognize the quote,” Lofty and proud. “That’s the wonderful author T-”_

_“Leo Tolstoy.” His mouth had moved almost without his thinking, but it comes out confident and strong. “It’s a quote from War and Peace by the Russian author Leo Tolstoy. I read it last summer.” He steps back. “And I’m just fine staying here with Mister Stark if that’s all the same to you.”_

_For a moment, Doctor Miller seems thrown, but he recovers quietly, his slightly open mouth shutting in a barely-heard snap. “I should have expected better of the boy, Tony!” Another laugh. Peter getting sick of those. “He is your intern after all. Only the best for the Starks!”_

_Tony’s about done with this man, Peter can tell. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are glaring, but he still somehow manages to give another charming smile in response to the somewhat bitter comment. “And only the best for your hospital, John. Which is why,” and he raises his voice so the surrounding occupants can hear, walking toward the president of the hospital with that same biting aura of fake sincerity. “Under the brilliant recommendation of Doctor John Miller, I will be donating ten million dollars exclusively to the women’s research program at this prestigious institute. I’m sure the talented nurses and female doctors will hold up quite well under Doctor Miller’s compliments.”_

_Peter can’t help the small laugh that escapes at the look on Miller’s face.)_

When people see Peter, they don’t see anything more than a gangly teenager, awkward and weirdly fit. They see their own teenage years, full of lazy inadequacy and makes judgements based on that. They treat Peter like he’s them, followed by condescending comments and half-helpful judgements. He swallows his comments every time, but the little ball of disappointment only grows inside his chest. He just wants people to see him as he is, not like them, or just a dumb kid, or as something less than them. He’s Peter Parker, and he’s 15. That doesn’t make him a kid, and it doesn’t make him dumb.

_(“What’s the deal, Tony?” Rhodey said, as Tony pushes him out the lab with both his arms. His face is indecipherable, and it makes Rhodes edgy. “You said you had time today.”_

_“Well, plans change, honey bear.” And he closes the door definitively and starts walking up the stairs, Rhodey following. “I’ve got important superhero duties to take care of, saving the world, running a company-”_

_“Pepper runs the company,” Rhodey retorts, and leans on the bannister on top of the stairs. Phantom pains glide across both his legs. “Seriously, level. What’s up?”_

_“I just told you.” Tony pointed out, and then turns as the door chimed. “Oh no-”_

_“Hey, Mister Stark, I know you said I could come for Calc help in an hour but I figured that we could jump the gun and - oh. You have company.”_

_It’s a… kid. A shocked kid with a ridiculous shirt on and designer jeans. ‘’Are those Rick Owens?’ He wonders, looking at the sleek black sneakers that the interloper was wearing. No matter how stylish the kid looks - just like Tony, his subconscious whispers - Rhodey is immediately on guard. “Who’re you?” he demands and looks toward Tony. “You know this kid?”_

_The kid flushes and muttered something. Tony sighed. “Yeah, yeah. This is Peter. Peter, meet honeybear. Honeybear, likewise.”_

_Peter looked even more confused, and Rhodey decided to take pity on him. “Colonel James Rhodes,” He introduces himself and holds out his hand to Peter to shake. His grip is surprisingly strong for a teenager, and he holds in a slight wince as his hand turns slightly white where the fingers make contact. “Nice grip,” He comments._

_The kid’s not looking at him, still looking over his shoulder to Tony in the background. After a second thought, he looks toward him and smiles hesitantly. “Peter Parker,” He says back, and his voice is just ever-so squeaky. “And - sorry.” His grip loosens._

_“No problem,” and it’s distracted too. Rhodey’s mind is racing. Was this Tony’s kid - a life-long mistake from the old days? Had he and Tony really grown that apart from each other that he didn’t even know that this kid existed? ‘It’s only been a few months,’ he thinks and looks back toward Tony._

_He looks uncharacteristically nervous, his hands hidden behind his back, but surely fidgeting. His face is closed off, and he’s trying to be the fearless Anthony Stark, CTO of Stark Industries. The show doesn’t work with Rhodey, Tony knows that, so who’s he doing it for?_

_Then Rhodey realizes. The kid - Peter, he reminds himself - also looks nervous, but the longer he looks at Tony, the more his stance imitates him, his shoulders lowering and his hands stilling. ‘It’s for the kid,’ and the epiphany and all it entails almost scares him._

_A lot of people say Tony is selfish, only seeing the outside. Rhodey, Pepper, Happy though, they know him. Tony’s had his selfish, impulsive moments, but he truly cared about others. He always had a sort of impersonal care for any decent human, and it showed in the way he expressed himself, especially around children. But this concern?_

_This was personal, this was practised. Who_ is _this kid?_

_“Anyway- !” And Tony clapped his hands together - one, two. “Rhodey as someplace to go, he’s super busy, you know, as War Machine and all-”_

_“You’re War Machine?” And now the kid is gaping. “I knew I recognized your name! That’s so cool, Mister Rhodes! Wow, I love y-”_

_“It’s Iron Patriot, actually,” His voice seems too loud, even in his ears, but he continues anyway. “And it’s Rhodey.”_

_Peter grins. “Okay, Rhodey.”_

_Tony scoffs, a loud jarring sound that shakes off Rhodey’s shock slightly. “So it’s Rhodey with him in like a minute, but you’ve known me for months and it’s still ‘Mister Stark’?” The air-quotes hang, strongly implied, in the room around them._

_“You what my Aunt May always says, Mister Stark,” and Peter’s face turns mischievous. “Respect your elders.” Rhodey barks out a surprised laugh, and Tony’s face is one of mock-indignation._

_“That’s it._ _” Tony said in a flat voice, but his amusement bleeds in nonetheless. “You’re grounded. Leave. Go. Hurry! Go to your room!” ‘He has a room?’ Rhodey wonders and his mouth opens slightly in shock at the carefree, joking tilt, and then opens even more as Peter acts as though this is routine._

_“Fine!” And he stomps his foot on the floor harshly, his grin giving away his stern and angry tone. “I’ll be in my room!” He shifts his backpack, stomps once more and basically flies through the left corridor, clearly knowing where his destination was._

_Tony smiled softly as Peter left, and then wiped his face when Rhodey faced him with a fierce look. “What?” He said defensively and sat down on one of the impractical couches in the hallway. His face bespoke the comfort of the harsh orange plastic covering over it._

_“What do you mean ‘what’?” Rhodey demands, pointing toward the now-empty corridor where that impossible child had just been. “When were you going to tell me about_ him _? Did you just find out - is he, is he yours - I mean…” He splutters, speechless. His legs twing even more._

_Now Tony’s the one confused. “Mine? Peter?” And realization coats his face. He turns pale. “You think - no, no, no!” and he laughs a nervous sound. “Yeah, no. Peter’s just an intern.”_

_“An intern?” His face is full of scepticism. “Tony, he has his own room.”_

_Tony flushes. “That’s just for convenience!” He struggles to explain, “He sometimes stays overnight on the weekends when research runs late, and I wasn’t going to have him sleep on the couch when I have all those empty rooms…” He trails off._

_A silence passes between them. Suddenly, Rhodey felt so old. All the mistakes between them, all the unspoken secrets. They were so tired now, so tired. All the blood. The lines on Tony’s face seemed deeper now, and Rhodey sighed._

_“He seems like a good kid, Tony.” It’s said softly._

_“He is.” Tony looked back once more at that empty corridor. “He really is.” A pause. “The best of us.”_

_“The best of all of us.”)_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments fuel my bad days and light me up like nothing else. Even if it's just a keyboard smash, I honestly appreciate it and love every letter all the more. 
> 
> Some references:  
> 1\. The shoes worn by Peter in the Rhodey scene are Rick Owens' sneakers in the model FW19 by Larry Low. They retail for $1020 and I could never afford them. My personal headcanon is that they're the favourite shoes of a Mister Stark, and he just happened to have a brand-new pair that didn't fit him one day. Oops!  
> 2\. The etymology regarding humoral immunity is correct, and the Latin sentence Peter says after translates loosely to "I give thanks to my teacher." with the 'I' emphasized. ^.^ Latin is great, I recommend Henle or Wheelock's editions if you're thinking of learning it.  
> 3\. The quote of Leo Tolstoy is indeed from War and Peace, a beautiful Russian novel I wholeheartedly recommend as well.  
> 4\. A.A. stands for Alcoholics Anonymous, a non-profit organization dedicated to "sobriety and the keeping of it". There is indeed an organization on 121st in New York City, New York.


End file.
